


He's Waited for You

by paradigmfinch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Sherlock, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Rugby Captain John, Teenlock, cute boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:32:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigmfinch/pseuds/paradigmfinch
Summary: John is sure that he and James are going to be together forever.That doesn’t change when Sherlock transfers into their school and makes a fool of himself flirting with John. Not for a while, it doesn’t. (No infidelity)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am forever leaving anonymous teenlock prompts on FYTL’s tumblr. For once, I was motivated to write a full story behind it! That, in combination with my recent realization that I never write Sholto and Victor as full characters that exist for reasons other than to push Johnlock together, inspired this story. Enjoy!

When they started seeing each other, they were fourteen and nobody thought it would last. They assumed James was ‘just a phase’ for John. So did James, for a while, until John convinced him otherwise.

  
Everyone who rooted against them was wrong. James became John’s everything. His first time, his first love. Not his first kiss, but the first kiss he’d ever felt all the way down to his toes. The first boy that made John _want_ to find the courage to come out as bisexual. John was sure that this, them, was for forever.

 

* * *

 

When he meets Sherlock, John is sitting with James on the first row of metal bleachers, watching rugby tryouts. He sort of recognizes the boy’s curly head so he nudges James.

 

“Babe, do you recognize that bloke? Doesn’t exactly look the rugby sort.”

 

James considers the figure with his typical sharp, assessing glance. “Well. He’s thin as a rake, like he’s grown too much too quickly, but graceful. Looks more of a dancer than a winger, if you ask me. Think I’ve seen him hanging around the chemistry labs. Year under ours maybe?”

 

“Oh, of course! That must be Holmes. The new kid, think he’s in my advanced chem section. He’s not usually wearing…that.” Holmes is wearing a crop top and the tiniest purple rugby shorts John has ever seen. Not exactly practical for the brisk fall weather, and they make the boy look like he’s mostly legs. He doesn’t have proper cleats either, just a pair of scuffed up trainers with rainbow laces.

 

James clears his throat loudly. “Should I be jealous, darling?” he asks, and John realizes he’d been staring rather a long time. He smirks up at James, who had crossed his muscled arms and lifted an eyebrow.

 

“Can’t blame a bloke for looking. Anyways, that one needs to grow into his height a little bit, if he _really_ wants to catch my attention.”

 

James rolls his eyes. His boyfriend may be a shameless flirt, but James knows now that John wouldn’t betray him. Even if it had taken about a year of John telling him so for James to start believing it. Now, they have been together more than two years and James thinks he’s the luckiest bloke in their school. Plenty of people, of all genders, agree.

 

Coach Donovan rounds up the possible recruits and gives them suicide laps, as many as they can without stopping or passing out. John remembers this stage of his own rugby tryouts vividly. He remembers wanting to pass out or die his legs burned so much, but needing even more to outlast James, who was running easily at his side. The year tens do better than expected, but Holmes is obviously not invested in the exercise. After a few rounds, he simply stops, not even breathing hard. Coach sends him to take a cool-down lap, scribbling on her clipboard.

 

Holmes grabs a bottle of water and unscrews the cap, while John admires the line of his throat as he takes a few gulps. Just as Holmes approaches the front of the bleachers, he directs his eyes deliberately towards the pair of them, leans his head back, and pours the remains of the water all over himself.

 

John gapes. James snorts. “Oh my God, John, you've caught another one?”

 

Holmes winks, tosses the bottle aside, and takes up his lap. John only manages to snap his jaw shut as the boy rounds a corner.

  
“Shut up! He could’ve been looking at you.”

 

“Yes, that’s likely. I _am_ the blond, handsome rugby captain, future doctor voted ‘best smile’ and ‘most likely to break hearts’ two years running. When he _wasn’t technically in the race._ ”

 

“Like you’ve got a leg to stand on, Mr. Best Dressed.” John shoves James’ shoulder with his own, trying not to blush. As much as John likes to flirt, he’s not used to such bold attention from admittedly attractive blokes.

 

It doesn’t end there.

 

James teases John about Holmes’ (really painfully obvious) crush at every given opportunity, although John continues to insist that the attention could be directed towards James. They spend all their time on campus together, after all. ‘Every given opportunity’ becomes quite often, considering that Holmes tends to show up wherever they are over the next several weeks. In the library, at a nearby table at lunch, and of course on the bleachers at rugby practice. Holmes never says anything, just stares intently, like he’s working hard to figure something out.

 

One afternoon, Holmes doesn’t show up to watch rugby, but John sees his fluffy head of dark curls from a distance, his figure limping slightly. John begs off from practice (he leaves the team in James’ capable hands) to pursue the boy who is, upon closing inspection, sporting several scrapes and a black eye. John corners him by the back wall where the smokers gather.

 

“Oi! Sherlock, yeah? You went out for rugby a couple weeks ago.”

 

Sherlock meets John’s gaze with a flash of defiance, then flinches when John reaches up to thumb under a fresh cut near his right eye. “Easy there, I’m not going to hurt you. Who did this? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

 

The boy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, in a classic defensive stance (one that is rather diminished by the accompanying wince).

“I ran into a couple of lacrosse players. They didn’t appreciate my shoes.”

 

“Your shoes?” John asks, torn between bewilderment and rage. He has an idea who Sherlock means. Sherlock gestures down to his trainers which – John remembers with a glance downwards – have rainbow laces.

 

“Let me guess. They beat you up because they think your shoelaces mean you’re gay?”

 

“Well. I _am_ gay, and that _is_ why I chose these laces, but yes. Their rhetoric would indicate that my sartorial expression of sexual orientation was a motivating factor in their actions.” _This boy is something else_ , John thinks. Who _talks_ like that?

 

 “Seb Wilkes? And Anderson?”

 

Sherlock screws up his face in thought. “No idea. I’ve been calling them 'Smarmy' and 'Rat-face'. In retrospect, that also may have had something to do with this.” He gestures to his injuries.

 

John sighs, already planning his retribution as he takes Sherlock’s elbow and steers him into the school. “C’mon then. I keep a spare med kit in my boyfriend’s locker, it’s not far from here.”

 

“B-boyfriend?” Sherlock asks, tripping a bit.

 

“Um, yeah. James, Sholto. He’s on the rugby team with me?”

 

“Oh! The... gingerish one? Tall and stoic?”

 

John snorts as they reach James’ locker. John enters the combination without needing to think. “We really need to work on names with you. But yes, that’s the one. He'd appreciate that description, honestly.”

 

As John pulls out disinfectant wipes and butterfly bandages from his carefully organized case, he hears Sherlock mutter, “There’s always something.”

 

“What do you mean?” he asks absently, as he starts caring for Sherlock’s injuries, dabbing tenderly at the cuts and scrapes, not meeting the boy’s penetrating gaze.

 

“I thought I had deduced everything important. You’re going to be a doctor, obviously, what with multiple med kits. Army perhaps, if the interest in sport and the obvious hero complex persists. Sister has a drinking problem, although nobody has said anything as she’s off at university and your parents assume it’s just regular partying. That’s obvious from the inscription on your second hand phone and the scratches around its sockets. You’re bisexual, obvious going by the patch on your bag and the way you flirt with boys and girls in our chem class. I thought I had it all right, but apparently I missed your involvement with, um...“

 

“James.”

 

“Yes, him. I thought you two were friends. There’s _always_ something.”

 

John can’t help the bright laugh that escapes him. “That’s amazing! No wonder you’re a year ahead in chemistry, you’re obviously brilliant!”

  
Sherlock smiles, small and unsure, in response. John immediately wants to befriend him. There’s just one thing to settle first. “But, mate, you need to work on your flirting technique.”

 

A slow blush begins to creep up Sherlock’s ears and John can’t help himself. “The trick with the water bottle? Not exactly subtle.”

 

Sherlock grumbles over his obvious discomfort, “I wasn’t _attempting_ subtle.” And then with realization, “Oh God, James was sitting right next to you. Oh my _God._ I am so sorry, I didn't realize. Tell him I am so sorry, _please_.”

 

John can't help but giggle, long and infectious, until Sherlock joins in. Once Sherlock’s all patched up and his blush has faded to a sweet pink, John wraps a careful arm around his shoulders and tows him back out towards the rugby pitch. “C’mon, mate, practice is almost over and you can tell him yourself. D'you know, I think I’m going to keep you around. Hardly anybody in this town is LGBT etc, or if they are, they are _deep_ in the closet. Speaking of which, I have my suspicions about Molly, but that will work out in its own time." Sherlock is following John's rambles with a small smile, and John is reminded of something. "Ugh, James is going to be so smug.”

 

“About what?”

 

“We had an argument over who the water bottle display was directed at. That boy has a serious confidence issue, it’s why he assumed it was me. Even if it _was_ me, that isn't the point.” John shakes his head fondly. He does everything he can to counter the self-deprecating streak that runs a mile long in his boyfriend. “He always gets so self-satisfied whenever someone flirts with me.”

 

Sherlock bites his lip uncertainly. “He won’t be jealous?”

  
“Nah. My James is a complicated man.” John knows the smile on his face is goofy, but he doesn’t mind that Sherlock sees it. It really is nice to meet another queer person close to his age. When they get back to the pitch, practice has already finished. Sherlock stammers an apology to James, shockingly red, and James laughs it off with a playful punch to the boy’s shoulder. John feels proud: James wouldn’t have been so easily accepting even a year ago.

 

John decides then and there that he _is_ going to keep Sherlock Holmes. And that starts with giving Seb and Anderson a bit of a talking to. Yes, he and James share a free period with them before practice tomorrow. That will work splendidly.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock settles gracefully into the small group of queer kids at Surrey prep. If John’s suspicions about Molly are correct, the group is comprised of John, James, Irene, Molly, and now Sherlock. After Irene’s routine intimidation tactics fail to work on Sherlock, the two of them get along shockingly well, their matching intensity slightly terrifying to witness. Molly is soon harboring a crush for Sherlock (the girl is forever falling for gay men) but Sherlock ignores it and they soon become friends as well, their interests in forensics and pathology overlapping. James is soon acting like Sherlock's overprotective big brother, and John becomes his partner in crime-solving.

 

By February, the school year has shaped up to be John’s favorite yet.

That's when the news comes crashing down on them all.

 

It starts with James retreating into himself more and more. John gives him space, keeps him quiet company while the boy grapples with whatever it is that’s bothering him. John prides himself on knowing James better than anybody, and he knows the difference between James processing and James repressing some demon he should be talking through. As much as John burns to know what's going on, he'll give James the time he needs to work through whatever this is.

 

When a month has passed and James still hasn’t opened up, John goes to Sherlock. They’re sprawled together on John’s crappy couch as _Q.I._ titters on the television.

 

“This has happened before. When his older brother got shipped out, and then again when they thought his mom might have breast cancer. It's like he's shutting down non-essential operations while he figures out his head. But he’s never shut _me_ out for so long, and I’m worried that he’s not letting anyone help him, you know?”

 

Sherlock hums from his position, head in John’s lap as John strokes through his hair absently. This closeness is a bit unusual for friends, John knows, but it’s never bothered James and Sherlock is so heart-breakingly touch starved that John can’t help himself but to comfort his best friend in whatever ways he can.

 

“John, I’m…not sure I’m the person you should be having this conversation with.”

 

This is surprisingly emotionally intelligent for Sherlock. Usually the boy likes to pretend that he’s remote, disinterested and unversed in sentiment. John thinks he does it to protect what John suspects is a rather fragile heart. He glimpses that elusive heart every so often, in the way Sherlock cradles and distracts a heart-broken Molly, or sits quietly with James when the boy goes to anxious pieces over an upcoming exam.

 

“You know what's wrong, don’t you? You’ve deduced, that’s why you’re saying that.”

  
“John, it’s--”

 

“How bad can it be? Just tell me, I want to be able to help him. I need to.”

 

“Wait a minute.”

 

“ _No!_ Please, Sherlock, for me.”

 

Sherlock sucks in a breath, sitting up and crossing his legs on the sofa. “Colonel Sholto is being sent abroad. Permanently this time, I believe. It’s likely he’s taking James along with him... I’m so sorry, John.”

 

John can’t breathe. James. Gone. Without him. _No._

“I. I need some air.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is right of course. Once confronted, James breaks down and tells John everything.

 

India. After the school year is over. The two of them clutch each other, take turns crying and wiping away tears. It feels like the end of everything.

 

* * *

 

John goes with the Sholtos to India for the summer to help James settle in. The base is like a small city, self-contained, the lifestyle altogether more military than civilian. They play football with some of the locals in the surrounding towns. James quickly befriends a boy their age named Pranav, and something tightly coiled eases in John to know that when he leaves, James won’t be alone.

 

Because John will be leaving him. They talked about it for long hours, whether or not to stay together, as a couple. They agreed, even though it hurt, that it would be easier for them both to “take a break,” and leave open the possibility of reuniting when they get older.

 

When the day to leave finally comes, John extracts promises from James and Pranav to Skype regularly. Just because James won’t be his boyfriend anymore doesn’t mean that he’ll stop being one of the most important people in John’s life.

 

He boards the plane back to England feeling like he’s left half of his heart behind.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John heals. And as he does, he realizes something.

 

Sherlock, Molly and Irene are the only reasons that John keeps going, his first month back in England.

 

He feels less empty when Irene and Molly are loudly explaining feminism to Sherlock, and when he and Sherlock are chasing down a bicycle thief, and when they all gather around John’s laptop on movie nights to call James.

 

John doesn’t notice it until James points it out (from India for fuck’s sake).

 

“Is that Sherlock, all grown up? Looking fine, mate.”

 

Yes, Sherlock had grown a few inches since the summer ended, but now John notices that other things are different _,_ too _._ His voice has dropped at least an octave, his shoulders are filled out, and wiry muscle now stretches over his arms where there wasn’t any before. He’s still the same acerbic, brilliant Sherlock as ever of course, but he seems to have settled into himself physically in a way that he wasn't before.

 

One day Sherlock comes to their lunch table with a stylish new haircut cropped on the sides and a boy John doesn’t recognize on his elbow. The transformation from gawky teenager into  confident, self-assured young man is complete. It looks good on him.

 

“Hi, guys,” Sherlock starts. Irene and Molly both clear their throats, so Sherlock back- tracks, knowing better than to roll his eyes _too_ obviously. “Hello, my friends of multiple genders whom I will not generalize into the patriarchy by calling ‘guys.’” John expects the boy on Sherlock’s arm to comment on the robotic tone of voice, but he only laughs and leans into Sherlock’s side, saying:

 

“Shall I handle the introductions then? I’m Victor. And I’ve heard plenty about all of you!”

 

Sherlock blushes, and leans further into Victor to murmur something in his ear.

 

John doesn't quite believe that this is the same gangly, awkward Sherlock that went out for rugby in order to flirt with the captain. On second thought, John eyes Victor again and wonders whether Sherlock might not have a type. Victor is blond, maybe an inch taller than John, and built like an athlete.

 

John manages to rein in these thoughts long enough to invite Victor to sit with them, and to thoroughly tease Sherlock for finally bringing a boy home to meet the family.

 

Before lunch is over, it’s obvious that Victor _fits_ with Sherlock, and with the rest of them. When Molly and Irene continue to chastise Sherlock and John for their male privilege, Victor joins in enthusiastically. At their shocked expressions, he shrugs and says, “Ex-girlfriend wants to be an equal rights lawyer.” And just like that, John has a new friend who will discuss the perils of bisexuality with him as well as someone to talk sport with, now that James is gone. Victor has a morbid sense of humor that keeps Sherlock and Irene entertained, and adorable stories about a young niece for Molly.

 

Within the hour, all this combined (with the devoted looks Victor shoots Sherlock’s way) are plenty enough to win them over entirely.

 

* * *

 

In November, James tells John that he and Pranav have started seeing each other. He’s got a shy, sweet smile on his face as he says it that makes John’s heart feel all the way full again.

 

Everyone John loves is happy.

 

* * *

 

John shoulders his way into Sherlock’s bedroom, arms full of DVDs from the library. “Sherlock, cancel your plans. This weekend I am educating you on the glorious pop culture phenomenon known as Star-“ He watches as Victor scrambles off of Sherlock, hears the audible smack as their lips disconnect. They’re blessedly clothed, but Sherlock’s shirt is untucked and unbuttoned, his hair mussed and lips red. “…Trek.” He finishes, frozen in time. “Sorry, I’ll just,” he manages as he backs out of the room. Victor sends a _bro, this is awkward_ grimace in his direction but John just keeps backing away, until he has the sense to turn around and stumble down the stairs.

 

Oh.

 

Sherlock rumpled, lips kissed, socks off. Victor hovering over him, touching him, kissing his lips.

 

John, in Victor's place, kissing warm-soft-full lips, fingers tangling through the curly hair he knows so well.

 

Oh _shit._

He’s home before he realizes that he’s gotten into his car. It all crashes down around him.

 

Sherlock, 16, dunking water over himself to get John’s attention. Tugging him by the hand through alleys after a shoplifter, adrenaline singing in their veins. Snorting at John’s terrible jokes. Grown into his dramatic face, stronger, surer, and utterly _gorgeous_. With Victor’s arms around his waist, moving away when John gets too close on movie nights, these past months.

 

A text from Victor: _Sorry, mate. You know how it goes ;)_

 

John wants to throw up. Instead, he takes a shower, trims his fingernails, and pretends to read a biology textbook for another hour before he gives in, and calls James.

 

Pranav answers the call, hair styled, clad in a Captain America shirt. “John! It’s been a couple of weeks. How’s things?”

 

“Oh, they’re um. They’re okay.” John’s voice is strangled, and he knows it.

 

“One second, mate, I’ll get James for you,” says Pranav. John genuinely likes this bloke, and it’s times like this he remembers why. After a tense minute of silence on John’s part, John hears a scuffle and James’ face lowers itself in front of the screen, a wide smile on his face.

 

“John! We’ve missed your face around here. Where’ve you been?”

 

“Yes, well…um, Rugby season just ended, things have been busy.”

 

“What’s wrong?” James immediately picks up on the tension in his body, in his voice. They know each other so well.

 

“Well… There’s this bloke.”

 

“Mmhmm.” John wonders why James looks almost disinterested.

 

“And I think I might—“

 

“You do.”

 

“What?”

 

“You do like him. Sherlock.” James’ expression is bland, and Pranav behind him gives a snort.

 

“What do you—you don’t even know what I’m talking about!” John yelps.

 

“You’ve realized you’re attracted to Sherlock. Romantically. Although, physically, he did come back from that poncy music camp even _more_ fit, if I do say so myself.”

 

John drags a hand over his face. He was planning on telling James himself. Having the truth _deduced_ by James, he’d never considered. Does John have a random thing for blokes with deductive abilities? “How did you know?”

 

James shrugs, unperturbed. “There’s always been a spark with you two.” John starts to protest, but James shushes him. “I’m not saying that you were harboring romantic feelings while we were together. I know you loved me. But I saw that you _could_ love _him_ , if you wanted to. The two of you, just, connect.”

 

John gapes. “How are you so okay with this?” John asks.

 

“He’s got a hot new boyfriend now, John!” Pranav calls as he approaches the laptop and wraps his arms around James’ neck. “No need to be jealous.” Pranav winks, dark eyes sparkling. “Seriously though. I’ve never even properly met Sherlock and I know you’ve been interested for the last couple of months, at _least_. The way you go on about him, the way you talk about Victor, like you've had a missed opportunity. What’s the problem?”

 

“ _Victor_ is, obviously. Sherlock has obviously moved on. Even if he used to…like me. We’ve been friends for so long, he probably can’t even see me that way anymore.”

 

“John,” groans James. “I’ve seen pictures of this Victor bloke. He’s a John 2.0, total look-alike. Our boy is obviously pining for you, _hard_.”

 

John snaps. “Victor is a real person and my _friend_ as it happens, and Sherlock cares about him. I can’t just bust my way into their relationship, even if- if what you’re saying is true. The way they touch each other, laugh with each other.” John forces a weak smile. “I walked in on them today. Nothing too explicit, but…”

 

James barks out a laugh. “Y’always were a bit thickheaded, John. Need a good, solid whack over the head before you understand these things.” James leans back into Pranav’s arms, and twists to look up at him. “Have I told you the story of how John and I got together in the first place? I used the ‘I have a fake date and need to practice kissing, with you of course’ scenario on him.” They share a laugh while John scowls.

 

Still laughing, James continues. “Anyways, John. If I’m right about Sherlock, then he’s waited a long time for a chance with you. The least you can do is wait a bit for him in return.”

 

Once they’ve teased and comforted John to their hearts’ contents, John signs off. Although he pretended to pout, he does feel a bit lighter after talking to them.

 

* * *

  
Now that he knows, it’s impossible to ignore. John feels a swoop of desire whenever Sherlock smiles, that mad grin crinkling up his entire face. He has to look away when Sherlock and Victor sit together, cuddled up like puzzle pieces.

 

Molly and Irene have obviously spoken to James without him about all this, because soon they are shooting him twin pitying looks.

* * *

 

As much as it aches, time moves on.

 

When the Christmas season rolls around, John and Sherlock go shopping together for gifts.

 

“Sherlock, Irene is not going to appreciate that.”

  
“Are you kidding? She wears this stuff all the time.”

 

“Fine, then. _Molly_ is not going to appreciate it. Buying sexy lingerie is more the purview of the girlfriend.”

 

Sherlock frowns at John from where he’s examining another lacy black contraption. “’Girlfriend?’ I believe Irene has said on multiple occasions that it’s problematic to use that term when describing platonic female-female friendships.”

 

“Mhm, she most certainly has.” John agrees, waiting for the penny to drop.

 

Sherlock blinks rapidly, face blank. “Molly and Irene. Are.”

 

“Dating?” John suggests,

 

“Lovers?” Sherlock says at the same time.

 

“Oh, Christ. Lovers? Now _that_ , I don’t know anything about, Sherlock.” John groans. “That’s their business innit? Besides, who wants to think about their friends doing…that?” John squirms at the thought.

 

Sherlock’s face drops. “Yes, of course. Shall we visit the perfume counter for Irene, then?”

 

John chases after Sherlock. He knows when something is off with this boy. Sherlock walks faster. “Hang on, you bloody giraffe, what was that about? Is there something you wanted to say?”

 

Sherlock points out a crystal perfume bottle with a red cap. “ _The Woman_ , this one’s called. Irene would likely appreciate-“

 

John spins Sherlock around, and grabs his face between his hands. It’s the most he’s touched Sherlock in weeks, and John has to swallow around a lump before he speaks. “Don’t play this with me. I’m your best friend, you know you can talk to me about anything.”

 

Sherlock fiddles with the tattered ends of his scarf when John releases his face. “Even if it’s about Victor?”

 

John wills himself not to stiffen. He crosses his arms. “Of course. What’s going on?”

 

“We haven’t…You don’t mind, even if it’s about Victor and me? Victor and I…we haven’t…”

 

Sherlock trails off, blushing horribly (beautifully). He looks to his right, left, anywhere but John.

 

Only once the silence has grown uncomfortably long does it click. Sherlock had said ‘lovers,’ _‘we haven’t…’_

 

“Oh! Right. Um. Well.”

 

Their words start to pile over each other.

 

“If you don’t want to-“

  
“No! That’s not it. I do! Well, not that I _do-”_

“It’s just that I know you did with James, and I’ve been wondering lately if I should-“

 

“So you haven’t before? I mean, um, don’t answer that. That’s just I mean, when I walked in on you-”

 

“No of course I haven’t but maybe-“

 

“You want to with Victor, then?” John swallows. “He's the one?”

 

John expects a scoff, a comment about sentimental drivel. Sherlock looks away. “He’s not…it’s not about that. It’s just…”

 

“He’s not pressuring you into anything, is he?”

“No!”

 

“Because if he is, I swear, I’ll-“

“John!” Sherlock cries, and John’s jaw snaps closed. He’s aware that both of them are blushing enormously. Before long, the shared tension can't help but snap. John starts to giggle. Soon, the two of them are clutching at each other’s arms, try not to fall over with the strength of their laughter.

 

Finally, John calms down enough to say, “Seriously though, Sherlock. Do what’s best for _you_. You deserve it. The best.”

 

Sherlock’s smile is small, and a little pinched. John has to look away as he realizes the implications of this conversation.

 

The jealousy, the hurt.

 

_Victor’s body crawling over Sherlock’s, uninterrupted by John this time, mouthing at his long neck and tugging off his shirt, trailing soft kisses down his chest—_

 

But John loves Sherlock. (The love also hurts, but in a good way. Like sore muscles after a long, satisfying practice. An ache to remind him that he’s alive, and human).

 

“I’m purchasing Molly and Irene matching outfits,” says Sherlock suddenly. “Feline sweaters, perhaps. Irene will hate it, but Molly will find it adorable. And if what you say is true, then I suspect Irene will love _that_.”

 

John grins. There’s that lovely ache, again.

 

Later that night, they’re walking to Molly’s house for a movie and to exchange gifts. Sherlock catches John staring at a window full of fancy, fair-trade chocolates.

 

“You’re pining. Try not to do it so obviously.”

 

“What?” John cries. There’s Sherlock’s ‘deduction face.’ And here’s John, standing like an idiot, in front of a display of chocolates. Oh, fuck, Sherlock is going to figure it it out. “I’m. Not…doing that.”

 

“Staring at expensive heart-shaped candy is hardly typical behavior of the un-infatuated, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, and hefts his bags full of gifts higher on his shoulder.

 

“Maybe I fancy someone. Doesn’t have to be _pining_.”

 

Sherlock looks at him critically, but allows John to lead him on their journey towards Molly’s. “I’ve heard about Pranav,” he says abruptly. “Pranav and James, that is.”

“Huh?” Oh bloody hell, John sounds like an idiot again. “How do you know about that?”

 

“I do have a Skype account, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I just never thought—“

 

“James and I have plenty in common, John. In fact, just the other night, we were discussing how much we both loathe your terrible jumpers.”

 

John shoves Sherlock (not too hard, the road is icy).

 

(Sherlock gives John an expensive looking watch. Irene grimaces at the cat-themed jumpers. Whatever Sherlock gives Victor makes Victor laugh uproariously, although he refuses to show the rest of them, merely kissing his smug boyfriend. Molly gets Irene a license for photo-editing software. When he opens John’s poorly packaged gift, Sherlock immediately puts on the rainbow scarf that John had picked out to match his trainers. Movies are watched and memories made. John’s side feels cold without anyone folded into it).

 

* * *

 

In the young hours of New Year’s Day, John gets an empty text message from Sherlock and knows something is wrong. He races to Sherlock’s address and sees the lights are out. He locates the ceramic lizard that holds a spare key, and is soon racing around the house to find his friend.

 

In the living room, he discovers something vaguely Sherlock-shaped buried entirely under what must be all the blankets the Holmes family owns, sniffling wetly into a pile of tissues.

 

John almost crashes into the boy in his haste to reach him. “What’s wrong?” He automatically wraps his arms around the shaking figure.

 

“He broke up with me.”

 

He's talking about Victor. Victor? _Victor_ broke up with _Sherlock?_

This, John simply cannot understand, and the disbelief spills out of him. “What? Why? What happened?”

 

Sherlock draws an unsteady breath, and tries to pull away from John’s arms. John holds him tighter, which sets off another round of crying. John holds him steadily, strokes his back, until Sherlock is ready to answer.

 

“I wanted to…I told him I was ready to… New Year’s, I thought it would be romantic and I was unbuttoning my shirt and he just. He just. He broke it off. Said it wasn’t going to work out, said how we weren’t meant to be, that I shouldn’t... And then he just…left. I’m sorry I texted you, I tried to delete it but it sent anyway and I wouldn’t have in the first place but I just didn’t want to be—“ Sherlock’s body convulses, as the boy fights for control over his emotions.

 

“Alone.” John finishes, and clutches Sherlock’s shaking body, trying to take the tremors into himself, take away his pain.

 

When eventually, John’s knees begin to ache on the hardwood of the living room, John scoops Sherlock up in his arms and carries him to bed. Instead of asking for more details, John just lies beside Sherlock, cards fingers through his hair, and murmurs reassurances and heartfelt apologies. He can feel Sherlock’s trembling in the hands clutched in John’s shirt.

 

Before long Sherlock turns drowsy, exhausted, John suspects, by an overload of emotions. “Why can’t anyone love me?” he murmurs, slurred, into John’s neck before his body relaxes entirely and he falls asleep.

 

John has to bite back his own tears. He lies there, arms around his best friend, his source of light, this boy he loves _fiercely_ who apparently doesn’t consider himself lovable, until he is sure that Sherlock will not wake up soon.

 

Sherlock’s young, peaceful face streaked with tears makes something in John go soft, then sharp with rage. He carefully slithers out of Sherlock’s loose embrace, and sets out.

 

* * *

 

It’s less than a quarter of an hour before John is pounding on another door. Victor’s father answers, and John charges past him without a word and up the stairs to Victor’s room before anyone can stop him. His door is locked, or John would barge straight in. He hammers on the door rather than kicking it down straight away.

 

“Victor, you piece of _shit!_ I know you’re in there, so open up!”

 

“John?” The door cracks open and Victor’s face appears. John is momentarily surprised to see redness around the boy’s eyes, but continues his tirade nonetheless.

 

“You remember that time I told you that if you ever hurt Sherlock that they would never find your body? Well, here I am. So tell me, please, because I don’t understand. What the _hell_ could possibly be so _bloody_ fucked up inside your head that made you _break things off_ with _Sherlock fucking Holmes_? He’s as good as you’re ever going to get! He’s intelligent and witty and causes so much trouble you could claw his eyes out sometimes and he _loves you._ What—”

 

“He doesn’t.” It’s said so quietly compared to John’s shouting that John almost doesn’t hear. He pauses. Victor looks defiantly into John’s eyes and says, “He doesn’t _love me_.”

  
John brings his voice into his lowest, most frightening register and continues. “If this is just you being an _insecure_ _prat_ , then I will march you over to his house right now to apologize or so help me, _Jesus_ , I will—”

 

“You’re not listening John! You never do! This is all your fault!”

 

“ _My_ fault?" John shouts. " _I’m_ not the reason that boy cried himself to sleep tonight. He told me he thinks nobody can love him, you know? Like he isn’t the most brilliant thing under the sun.”

 

Victor flinches, but then he straightens, looks down at John defiantly. “And whose fault do you think that is, hmm? You only trailed him along for two years when it’s obvious the boy is sick with love for _you_. Or don’t you know how we got together? Sherlock and me?”

 

John finds himself wrong-footed. He had planned on marching in here, shouting a bit, and possibly forcing Victor to come back to Sherlock’s to apologize. What is he talking about now?

 

“No. I don’t. And I don’t see how that’s relevant, we’re talking about—“

 

“Oh, it’s relevant,” Victor speaks over him. “It was during one of your rugby practices. I saw the most gorgeous boy I'd ever seen sitting alone on the stands, apparently alone and ignored, and had to talk to him. It was obvious pretty soon what had him sitting there. His eyes tracked every move you made, he smiled every time you laughed. I asked if you were his boyfriend, and he just said, ‘No, he’s taken. And my best friend.’ Went on to describe you as the bloody boy of his dreams."

Victor pulls in a harsh breath, still not meeting John's eyes. "I asked him, if you weren’t available, if maybe he’d take a chance on me instead. So you see, John, I’ve always been second-best. And I just couldn’t, couldn't let him settle anymore. I was so ready to fall for him, be everything with him. I would have. But you had started these last weeks to walk around with that lovelorn face of yours...and I realized...If I really care for him, want him to be happy, I’ll give him a chance at what he really wants. _Who_ he really wants. It would hurt even worse than having him myself, to deny him that.”

 

John stares. “But Sherlock wouldn’t—“ John doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s spinning, tilting crooked on an axis. "You and Sherlock- " Maybe…

 

Victor sighs. He looks ill, John thinks, and sad. “Am I going to have to give you the shovel talk, John? Or are you going to go back to Sherlock and be there for him like I can’t?”

 

John, still processing, just turns and goes.

 

Sherlock is still, mercifully asleep when John returns. He tucks himself under Sherlock’s arm and snuggles in next to the boy he needs so much. The boy who deserves _so much_. And he starts to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you back here in another week or two! The conclusion will be a bit longer, so give me a chance to finish up and edit.
> 
> comments are highly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six stages (the courtship)

By morning, John had devised a series of steps with which he can both help Sherlock through his break-up and show the boy how much he is loved. Is _needed_.

 

Sherlock snuffles awake as morning light falls across his face (there is no other word  than adorable John can imagine that would better describe Sherlock’s soft face, snuggling deeper into his pillow before gradually opening his eyes). He blinks slowly, his eyelashes crusty from tears and sleep.

 

“Morning, love.” John whispers.

 

For a single moment, Sherlock smiles so soft and sweet. “Good morning.” John aches for this to happen every day. To wake up tangled together, tender and warm, over and over again. Then a cloud passes over Sherlock’s face as he remembers. In a heartbeat, Sherlock extricates himself from John’s arms and rolls out of bed, rubbing his eyes. “S-sorry! Again. About last night, about all of this. I really don’t know what-“

 

_Stage one: Keep him distracted._

 

“Do you fancy sneaking into the cinema?”

 

“What?” Sherlock cuts off his rambling, a line creasing between his eyebrows.

 

“The cinema. We haven’t been for ages, we can even get those disgusting nachos you pretend not to like.”

 

Although visibly wary, Sherlock agrees, and the pair of them pull on their shoes and jackets as John chatters about what’s showing at the moment. They spend the day hopping between theaters, watching movies until they end or Sherlock gets bored, tossing popcorn at the screen and eventually getting chased out by an angry manager. It’s past nightfall when John drops Sherlock back home. Despite the distant looks that John has to keep chasing out of Sherlock’s gaze, a sense of familiarity, and of normalcy, has been restored between them.

 

Against all the odds, it was a good day.

 

_Stage two: Be there for him._

 

The faraway looks persist. Sherlock is quieter at lunchtimes and some days, John has to drag the boy away from his research and into the shower, because he’s forgotten to take care of himself again.

 

Once, John finds Sherlock in his room clutching one of Victor’s old shirts. There are tears in his eyes. John sits himself down beside him and imposes a one-sided hug onto a resistant Sherlock, tucking that dear, curly head under his chin for what might be hours, or minutes.

 

They breathe together. He feels their heart rates join into one rhythm.

 

 _Stage three: Show him he’s needed_.

 

When he’s struggling with his advanced biology studies, and even when he’s not, John takes his questions to Sherlock, and they spend hours arguing over the impact that food digestion has on the brain. It’s glorious.

 

When Irene and Molly refuse to speak to each other directly, John asks Sherlock to figure out what happened from Irene’s point of view, while John asks Molly. They meet to share their findings and work out the best way to trick the girls into talking to each other.

 

When Pranav tells John about a series of thefts in his neighborhood, John adds Sherlock to the call and watches him solve a crime that happened on the other side of the Earth.

 

He stops needing to remind Sherlock about showers and laundry. Sherlock doesn’t flinch anymore when Victor’s name comes up in conversation. It’s progress.

 

 _Stage four: Show him he’s wanted_.

 

On the last day of January, Irene throws Sherlock a surprise party. (“My birthday was a month ago.” “That’s what makes it so surprising!”)

 

John is nervous. He’s on Sherlock’s front step, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

 

Sherlock has been doing better. He’s more present, less melancholy. John even caught him having a friendly conversation with Victor. He seems to be moving on.

 

Which is great.

  
But John is nervous. Because Sherlock moving on means it’s time for the next part of his plan: to begin showing Sherlock how much he cares about him. To, with utter and complete sincerity, _court_ Sherlock Holmes. He finds the prospect terrifying (which he finds in turn, danger addict that he is, thrilling).

 

The door opens, and there’s Sherlock’s beautiful face, eyebrow raised and smirk in place. “Really John? Oscillating on the pavement?”

 

“These are for you!” John half-shouts, a flood of adrenaline surging through him as he thrusts a bouquet of belladonna flowers towards Sherlock. “They’re poisonous. I thought you might like that.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together in confusion as he looks between John’s reddening face and the bouquet in his hands. He’s doing the rapidly-blinking thing that he does when something has surprised him. It reminds John that this is _Sherlock,_ and not anybody else, and that he doesn’t need to feel so nervous. He’s putting his heart in the safest place he knows: in the hands of his best friend.

 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” John asks, trying to draw up a teasing voice and cocking his hip. Because if there’s anything John Watson can do under pressure, it’s flirt.

 

“Men don’t generally receive flowers.” That’s a no to being invited in apparently. John doesn’t mind, the cool temperature is nothing against the warm pools of light glowing inside him. 

 

“Careful, you know Irene can sense generalized statements concerning gender from a mile off... Don’t you like them? The flowers?”

 

Pink is climbing up Sherlock’s neck and into his cheeks. “That’s not- I do. I do like them. The flowers. They’re poisonous! Very- thoughtful. My birthday. Well not my birthday _exactly_ but. Um. Here, I’ll just…”

 

Sherlock backs up, and John follows, suddenly enjoying the thrill of stalking his prey. Sherlock leads them to the kitchen, where he puts the flowers in a graduated cylinder and adds water.

 

The pink of the flowers really brings out the flush in Sherlock’s cheeks.

 

* * *

 

This is how John starts.

 

He sits closer to Sherlock when there’s plenty of room to spare. He lets his gaze fall to Sherlock’s lips when he knows Sherlock is looking. He takes Sherlock on a picnic as the weather warms.

 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to catch on. He blushes, and stutters, and looks thoughtfully at John when John's looking the other direction. But he doesn’t say _anything,_ and he doesn’t reciprocate. After talking with James and Irene, John decides it’s time to up his game.

 

* * *

 

During a rugby match seems only fitting. He singles out Sherlock in the stands when he makes the game-winning point on the pitch, winks, and dumps his water bottle over his face and neck, then shakes it off like a wet dog. He looks back up to grin at Sherlock, only to find him missing. The game soon over, John grabs his bag, pulls on his jacket and begs off, thinking that Sherlock must’ve been headed for the parking lot. Without Sherlock’s gaze on him, John feels the chill of the air on his still-damp skin.

 

He finds Sherlock on the ground next to his car, curled up in a ball and in the midst of a panic attack. He’s trembling, taking in enormous breaths and seeming not to exhale at all. John shifts into soon to be doctor-mode, and crouches in front of his friend.

 

“It’s okay, Sherlock. Just breathe. Nothing bad is happening to you, you’re safe. I’m going to count to ten, try to match your breathing with the numbers okay?” John rubs Sherlock’s forearms in a repetitive motion as he counts, his own anxiety unclenching as Sherlock’s breath gradually evens and his shaking lessens.

 

He continues to talk nonsense as the parking lot fills and empties out, praises Sherlock’s breathing until the panic passes and everything is quiet again. Sherlock tips sideways, leaning onto the side of his car as all the pressure finally leaves his body. He doesn’t pull his arms away from John, who continues to stroke him.

 

“Too much?” John asks at last, attempting to crack a joke.

  
Sherlock snorts.

 

“It’s just, I was trying all the classic romantic gestures and you didn’t seem to be _getting_ them. The picnic, the flowers, the disregard for personal space. And I wasn’t getting any signals back, positive or negative, so I figured, something more...  _us,_ might work. And James reminded me of how we first met and it seemed like a great idea, but obviously, it was too much, too soon…Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock was trembling again. John pulled off his rugby jacket and wrapped it around his friend’s shoulders, worried. “Are you alright?”

 

When he looks up at John, Sherlock is shaking apart with laughter. “Too—much—“ Sherlock chokes out between giggles. “Not—exactly— _subtle—_ “ John begins to laugh along, helpless in the face of Sherlock’s joy.

 

“Well, I wasn’t exactly going for subtle!” John does his best to quote a conversation from a lifetime ago.

 

They run out of giggles as the chill night air catches up with them. Sherlock’s happy face creasing a little in confusion. “So this is? What I think it is?” Sherlock asks, doing nothing whatsoever to enlighten John.

 

“What is what what is?” John smiles, feeling elated and silly and invincible. He has Sherlock wrapped in his jacket, hopefully soon to be wrapped in his arms.

 

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not stupid, I knew all those things you were doing were classic John Watson seduction techniques-“

 

“They were not!” John protests.

 

“Well that’s just it! You were showing all the signs but you didn’t kiss me, didn’t do anything to make me sure that any of this was actually going somewhere, and not just some strange expression of friendship or a way to help me get over Victor, or I don’t know, a way to get in my pants!”

 

“I wasn’t _seducing_ you, I was courting you!” John cries.

 

“Well, what for?”

 

John gapes. “Do you seriously not know?” he asks. That’s what these long months had been about. About showing Sherlock. Letting him _see._

 

“Not know?” Sherlock sounds offended at the implication, but there is vulnerability in his eyes.

 

Slowly, like handling something delicate and precious, John brings his nose to brush alongside Sherlock’s, a chaste nuzzle as he breathes in his scent. “I love you _so much_ _,_ Sherlock, so much it hurts, like it’s going to claw out of my lungs and eat me alive every second I’m not with you.”

 

Sherlock is frozen, his breaths coming in halted shudders.

 

“You deserve everything. You deserve everything good and bright and perfect, because that is everything you are. Everything you are to me. And I am so afraid Sherlock. Afraid of how big this thing is that I feel for you, how enormous and shining and perfect it is. So I’m asking you, Sherlock Holmes. To take the leap with me. Take the fall. What do you think?” There are tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“You love me?” It’s small, and wondering. Like the genius Sherlock Holmes can’t wrap his mind around a new piece of data.

 

_Stage five: Love him. Fiercely._

“God help me, but _yes_. Lord, yes.”

 

“John?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Will you kiss me?”

 

John chuckles, a little watery, and starts laying down kisses all over Sherlock’s face. His forehead, a cheekbone, along his jaw and over each eyebrow. “Like this?” he breathes, pressing his love, the enormity of everything he’s feeling, into each firm kiss.

 

Sherlock sighs, breath tickling John’s face. “ _John_. You know that is not what I meant.”

 

John adores this brilliant boy. He can’t help but tease him a little longer, stretch out the anticipation. “Oh I don’t know, Sherlock. I’m not sure I’m done courting you just yet.”

 

With a frustrated growl, Sherlock fits both of his long-fingered hands around John’s head and drags him into a proper kiss. It’s hard and slow and holds so _much_ , the love and the waiting and the finally having. It goes through each cell in John’s body and makes each one hum in pleasure, makes them sing with the joy of soft lips against soft lips, wet tongues swiping out to tease and tangle. When he needs to breathe, when his smile grows too big to make kissing possible, John pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to Sherlock’s, fingers tugging through the short curls at the back of his neck.

 

“Is it always going to be that good with you?” Sherlock asks, breathless and smiling so wide his whole face crinkles up.

 

John smiles back, helpless and bursting with light. “God, I hope so.”

 

“John. I feel I must inform you.”

 

“Hm?” John asks, brushing a curl behind Sherlock’s ear and wondering if they’ll ever leave this patch of tarmac. If he’ll ever want to.

 

“I feel _thoroughly_ courted. I am, in fact, ready to be seduced.”

 

John's smile broadens. "Took me long enough to get you here. Full seduction could take a while,” he teases.

 

Sherlock holds him tighter.

 

“Looking forward to it.”

 

_Stage six: Don’t let go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading, especially to those of you who stuck around for the last chapter! Your comments mean the world to me.


End file.
